


these boots are gonna walk all over you

by glitter_ghostie



Series: finn week 2017 [1]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1970s, Finn-centric, Gen, Historical AU, Punk Rock, swfinnweek, swfinnweek 2017, vague pre-relationship finnpoe?? if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-12-04 00:16:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11543436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitter_ghostie/pseuds/glitter_ghostie
Summary: Finn travels to London with the opportunity of a lifetime: a record deal with the world famous First Order Records, but after walking out on them, he finds himself with no plan - until he finds a flier looking for a singer in a new band.





	these boots are gonna walk all over you

**Author's Note:**

> this is late but it's here at last!  
> also disclaimer: i took a lot of liberties with any scenes to do with the music industry, as i have no experience in it and so i had to make stuff up
> 
> [artwork of finn!!!](http://fridaseyebrow.tumblr.com/post/163313509315/finn-week-day-1-historical-au)

Finn had only been to London once, before, and it was so long ago that he could barely remember it. Now, he was stood in the largest train station he’d ever seen, clutching his suitcase and stood on his tiptoes to try and spot Mr Ren, and it was just a tad overwhelming.

He had been told to look out for a tall man with his name on a sign, and after about five minutes of searching, Finn was certain he was lost.

Maybe Mr Ren had abandoned him? 

The thought made his stomach knot. He knew, of course, that it was ridiculous, but knowing and believing were two different things, and Finn’s breathing was starting to become laboured when he bumped straight into someone.

“Watch it,” the man barked, and Finn jumped back a couple paces.

“I’m sorry, I – ” he saw the sign clutched in the man’s fist – it was his name.

“Mr Ren?”

The man scowled, confused, and Finn pointed to the sign. “I was meant to meet you here.”

“Ah, you must be Finn then.” Mr Ren said, and Finn nodded. “Well, you’re on time, at least. Come on, we’ve booked accommodation for you, but you should be able to find your own place, soon enough.”

Right, Finn remembered, because this wasn’t just a day trip.

Mr Ren led him to a taxi, and opened the boot for Finn to place his suitcase into. He was silent the whole time, and Finn soon gave up trying to make conversation.

The car journey was uncomfortably quiet, and it gave Finn plenty of time for his thoughts to stew. He felt the nerves in his gut, and forced himself to remember the excitement he’d felt when he’d gotten that letter in the mail – the letter that shoved his foot well into the door of the mean, inaccessible music industry – he tried smiling out of the window, hoping the act would make him feel less terrified. 

It didn’t work.

The car journey wasn’t too long, to Finn’s relief and also horror, and Mr Ren said nothing as he slid out of the car, handing the taxi driver the fare. Finn took his suitcase, and tried not to feel silly stood next to Mr Ren in his tailored suit. The guy looked like one of those Wall Street bankers out of the pictures he’d seen with Rey.

First Order Records loomed above him, a glossy building with big, revolving doors. He followed close behind Mr Ren, not letting himself stop to look at anything too closely, in case Mr Ren walked off without him. He said a few terse words to the receptionist, and then he motioned for Finn to follow him to one of several lifts. 

There was quiet music playing inside the lift, and it was the only sound as Finn looked around, counting the dozens of buttons on the lift panel. He resisted the urge to bite his nails, not wanting Mr Ren to see how nervous he truly was about being here – he wanted to look professional, composed.

He wanted to look like a star.

The lift stopped with a melodic ‘ping’, and the two of them set off down a long, wooden-panelled hallway. Mr Ren stopped at the only door, at the very far end of the corridor, and gave Finn a cold, unreadable look before pushing the door open. Finn stepped inside, and a moment later he heard the door thud shut behind him.

The room felt both stifling and cavernous at the same time – there was a long, wooden table, and several men and one woman all dressed in professional, tailored suits. They all looked up as he walked in, and the man at the head of the table – who was very old, and very, very wrinkled – sat up a little straighter in his chair.

“Mr Snoke,” Finn said, trying to sound confident while pushing his suitcase further under the table, so it wouldn’t be seen. “I’m here because of – ”

“Your tape, yes,” Snoke said, waving a hand at him. “Tell me, why did you pick a gospel song?”

Not one for pleasantries, then, Finn thought. “I was in a choir,” he said, his palms sweating under the scrutiny of Mr Snoke. “It’s a song I know well and felt confident singing.”

“But there’s no _business_ in selling gospel songs, not in this day and age. How do you feel about disco?”

“I like it.”

“Have you ever done drugs?”

The question was so unexpected it took him a moment to recover from the shock. “ _What?_ ”

“Drugs. Have you done them?”

“No.”

“Would you sing about them?”

Finn stood, frowning. “I’m not gonna sing about something just because it’ll sell records.”

“But I thought you wanted to be a star?”

“I can make good records without singing about drugs.”

Mr Snoke made an unimpressed noise. He turned to the woman on his left, and they murmured things Finn couldn’t hear.

The woman finally spoke to him. “We need to hear you sing some disco, what’s your favourite record?”

“Cloud City by Lando Calrissian.”

That caused them all to exchange looks, but eventually the woman nodded, saying “would you sing a part for us?”

Finn cleared his throat and adjusted his stance – he mentally ran through the verses in his head, imagining the bouncing tempo and synthesised rhythm as it built up to the chorus, which always made him feel like he was floating as Calrissian’s smooth voice crooned and soared. Finn joined in on the chorus, looking just above the head of Mr Snoke as he sang, letting himself feel nothing except for the words rolling off of his tongue. 

He knew he sounded good – he’d sung this song a thousand times before – and so when the woman’s voice cut in with “that’s enough, please,” Finn tried not to look confused or petulant.

“You have a good voice,” the woman said, “but you don’t have that… special something, yet. You stood still as a board as you sang, you had no stage presence – it didn’t even sound like _your_ song, just a copy of the existing track.”

Finn’s face burned as she continued. “We can, of course, train you – you have potential, but you’re just too…”

“Sweet,” Mr Snoke finished.

“Sweet?”

“Lando Calrissian isn’t sweet, he’s _suave_ ,” Mr Snoke said, and the others nodded in agreement, murmuring to each other. Finn felt like an insect under a microscope as they all turned back to him in unison, and he began to shuffle on the spot.

“Maybe we should propose some lyrics to him?” One man – a redhead with a face that looked like he spent his free time sucking lemons – murmured to Mr Snoke, and then a sheet of paper was being handed to Finn. He looked at the lyrics, reading them over, and frowned again.

“I said I didn’t want to sing about this.”

“ _This_ sells records,” Mr Snoke said, and it was in a tone of such condescending impatience that Finn slapped the sheet down on the table.

“I’ve thought about it, and I’ve decided I’m not interested in working with your label. Thank you for your time.”

There was a moment of stifling silence, and then Finn leapt into action, grabbing his suitcase and turning to leave.

“I can ruin you!” Snoke’s voice boomed after him as Finn pushed the door open. “I’ll make sure you never get signed – your career is dead!”

Finn kept walking until he was marching out of the lobby and onto the street.

Finn was glad he’d had the foresight to get the name of his motel beforehand, because he had no idea where it was and had to rely on a cab and a couple passers-by to get him there. He looked up at the brick walls, the grubby windows and flickering neon sign, and briefly wondered if he’d gotten the right place. He looked at the name he’d written on his hand: Star Motel, and then at the sign, which bore the same title. He grimaced, then sighed, picked up his suitcase, and stepped inside. 

Inside wasn’t much better: the wallpaper was peeling in places, the carpet was a little crusty underfoot, and the man behind the counter was completely absorbed in a Playboy magazine.

“Hey,” Finn said, and the man looked up, glaring.

“Yeah?”

“I have a reservation?”

The man gave him a ‘duh’ kind of look, and said “name?”

“Kylo Ren.” One of the only things Mr Ren had bothered to tell Finn was that the room was booked under his name, which he hadn’t seemed too pleased about. 

The man chucked a key at him, and then went back to his magazine. Finn turned without another word and began lugging his suitcase up the stairs.

He found his room quickly, making sure to barricade the door before collapsing onto the bed. He stared up at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the city outside, and remembered what Mr Snoke had said.

_“I can ruin you!”_

Finn knew, deep down, that it was true. First Order Record’s reach was massive, and they’d certainly gotten people blacklisted in the past.

His one shot, and he’d fucking _buggered_ it.

Finn felt his throat tightening, thinking about the phone call he would have to make to his parents, to Rey, telling them he’d be coming back in a few days, going to work in a factory like everyone else in their shitty little town, that he’d pay everyone back for the money they’d raised for his ticket to London eventually.

He couldn’t stop the slow, warm tear that rolled down his cheek, and he wiped at his face, groaning into his palms.

He’d put off the phone call until tomorrow, he decided.

 

The next morning, Finn decided that he’d rather get his own breakfast than brave the food at the motel, and he set off at a quick pace to the nearest corner store, his stomach growling. There was a store less than a couple streets from him, and the door jangled as he entered – he didn’t make eye contact with anyone as he strolled around, yesterday’s worry still tugging at his gut as he looked for something he liked. He bypassed the sandwiches and the ready meals, the countless tins of spam and processed foods, and found a bag of mini donuts.

Well, he thought, picking up the bag. If his life was going to shit, he might as well treat himself a little.

He took the donuts to the counter, sliding his money to the young woman sat behind it, and noticed the board filled with fliers behind her. Various sheets of paper had been tacked to the corkboard, and a bright orange poster stood out amongst the missing pet posters and adverts for window cleaners and maths tutors.

“BAND LOOKING FOR SINGER – NO PROFESSIONAL EXPERIENCE NEEDED – CALL “POE” ON THIS NUMBER FOR MORE INFO”

The woman caught him looking at the poster, and tore it down.

“No one’s asked about it, ‘cus no one reads the damn board anyway; you might as well take it. It’s been there for a few days.”

“Thanks,” Finn said, folding the paper and sticking in into his jeans pocket. He took his bag of mini donuts, and left the store with a sense of purpose.

There was only one phone in the motel, and it was in the lobby. Finn didn’t look at or talk to the man behind the desk, except when they occasionally gave each other the stink eye, and dialled the number. 

He stared at the flier as the phone rang. It could be utter bollocks, the band could be awful, they could all be thirty years older than him – 

“Hello, Dameron speaking.”

“Hello? Um, I have a poster about a band – I’m meant to speak to Poe?”

“Oh!” The voice on the other end became much brighter. “Are you interested?”

“Sure,” Finn said, and he didn’t think about First Order Records or the train ticket he had to buy or the phone call he still hadn’t made to his parents.

“Wicked,” Poe responded, and he sounded young – he couldn’t be much older than Finn.

“Um… do I need to audition?”

“Oh, yeah – hold on, I’ll tell you the address – ” Finn was grateful that Poe waited for him to find the pen he’d put down on the table and promptly lost track of. “ – Falcon Record Store, it’s not very far from the corner store our ad was in,” and then Finn scrambled to write the shop and street name.

“When you get there, just ask for me again, Chewie will let you through.”

“When should I come?”

“The record store is where we work, just drop by at some point after midday any week day. You could come today, if you want?”

Finn thought about spending another day in his room, rubbing his palms on his jeans as he psyched himself up to pick up the phone to call his parents, and said “sure.”

“Wicked,” Poe said again, and then the line went dead.

Finn put the phone down, reading over the address and chewing on one of his donuts.

“Can I have one?” The man behind the desk asked, and Finn was about to walk off when he stopped, sighed, and walked back over, handing the man a donut.

“Cheers,” the man said, and Finn nodded before leaving.

The record store was pretty easy to find, and Finn noticed an identical orange poster in the front window before entering. There were rows upon rows of records – many of which, Finn noticed, were signed under tiny record labels he’d never heard of, like _coruscant_ and _cantina band records_ – and posters plastered on every surface. A very tall, hairy man grumbled something as Finn approached.

“Poe said I should come here?”

The man growled an affirmative, and slowly stood up, lumbering into the back of the store to shout something.

“I hear you, mate, no need to yell,” a voice responded, and Finn was met by a young woman, his age, slightly taller than him and with a safety pin through her right nostril. She brushed a braid out of her face before sticking her hand out to shake. “You must be the guy who called us – sorry, Poe didn’t tell me your name.”

“Finn.”

“Welcome, Finn,” she said, grinning to reveal a set of crooked teeth, “I’m Karé.” She poked her head into the back of the store, saying “it’s him, Poe.”

“Bring him through!” A voice called, and Finn recognised it as Poe’s.

Finn was led into the cramped backroom of the store, filled with boxes of records, music paraphernalia and a couple ratty armchairs – there was a coffee machine shoved in the corner that a tall, greying man was leant over, but Finn didn’t have time to properly look at him before Poe was walking up to him.

The suspicions clicked into place as he looked at Poe, and then the three other people strewn across the room – they were _punks._ Very friendly punks, Finn noted, as Poe pulled him into an enthusiastic hug. Finn hesitated for a moment, and then patted Poe on the back before pulling away.

“Um, so should I just…” Finn looked around, looking for a mic or something of the like. “Sing?”

“Sure, you know any punk songs?”

Finn could list a few bands – the ones Rey liked to blast – but honestly, they all just sounded shit, in his mind. No skill involved, just noise.

“Not really.”

“That’s fine,” Poe shrugged, “just sing something you like.”

Poe, Karé, and the other band members all piled onto the armchairs, looking up at him with curious expressions. Finn cleared his throat, shuffled a bit, and sang.

He didn’t sing Cloud City this time – even thinking about it made him remember Mr Snoke’s shouts following him down the long corridor, passing the smiling faces of the big stars as he marched to the elevator. It was, however, still a Lando song, and it wasn’t until about halfway through that he noticed the attention of the older man on him.

He finished, feeling a little awkward and scratching his nose nervously as he waited for someone to say something. He glanced over at the man, who was holding his coffee in a tight grip, and made a shocked “oh” sound.

“I haven’t heard that song in a while,” the man said, and if the face hadn’t tipped Finn off, the _voice_ certainly did.

“ _You’re Han Solo._ ”

“I used to be.”

“You worked with – ”

“Lando, yeah.”

He glanced from Han to Poe, then back and forth between them a couple more times.

“You know each other?”

“He owns the store,” Poe explained, “but that’s not important right now.”

“Right,” Karé agreed. “Finn, I personally really like your voice, but I think we should get you in and sing one of our songs, so we can see how you sound in our style.”

“You mean more shouting?”

That got him a laugh, and Karé shrugged, “you can still sing, but yeah, our songs are pretty…”

“Passionate,” one of the others finished – a tall, wiry guy with spiky hair and no shirt – and the others chuckled again.

Finn was given another date for their first rehearsal, and he managed to stutter out the request for an autograph from _Han bloody Solo_ before he left, which was met with a grumble, but also a look of barely concealed pride.

 

The phone rang three times before Finn’s mom picked up.

“Hello?”

“Hey, mom.”

“Finn,” his mom exclaimed, “I was worried – you didn’t call yesterday.”

“Sorry, mom,” Finn said, curling the phone wire around his fingers. “Some stuff came up.”

“What kind of stuff?”

Finn sighed, bracing himself.

“First Order Records didn’t work out.”

There was a pause, and Finn’s fingers pulled the phone cable tighter.

“I see.”

“I have some good news, though,” Finn quickly added. “I’ve found some musicians who are interested in me for their band.”

In all honesty, he didn’t even know how good Poe and his friends – their band was called The Resistance, he found out – were at playing their instruments, but the worry and, God forbid, disappointment in his mom’s tone had made his heart twinge.

“So you’re staying in London?”

“Yeah,” Finn said, and he didn’t mention that he may not even end up working with the band, or that he probably wouldn’t have a place to stay once the cronies at First Order Records booted him out of the motel he was staying in.

“Finn?”

“Yes, mom?”

“Are you doing ok? Are you happy?”

“I’m doing better, now,” Finn said, and it was mostly true, ignoring the fear in his gut.

“That’s what matters most.”

“I love you, mom.” 

That. That was completely true.

 

It was during the first rehearsal that Muran – one of two lead guitarists in The Resistance – mentioned the gig.

“We’re gonna perform in a club,” he told Finn, adjusting the tuning of his guitar. “There’ll be record labels there looking to sign people.”

Finn’s gut wrenched.

“Do you know which record labels will be there?”

“Big ones,” Karé grinned, her voice barely concealing her excitement, “now that they’ve hopped on the punk train, they’re all clambering over each other to sign up and coming bands.”

Finn thought to Mr Snoke, at his glossy table and with a hundred contacts at the press of a button – and those were just people in London alone. He could get any number of them to turn The Resistance down, because of Finn.

He was about to say something when Muran crowed and strummed his guitar strings. “I’ve fixed it.”

“Thank God,” Iolo shouted. Karé walked over to him, tapping his ear.

“Earbuds, Iolo.”

“Right,” Iolo lowered his voice, grinning a little sheepishly.

“So, Finn,” Poe said, slinging his guitar strap over his shoulder as he approached. “We’ve been over the song’s music; do you think you can sing now?”

“I think so.”

“Wicked,” Poe said, and he grinned, revealing a gap between his front two teeth that Finn thought was pretty cute.

The others had slowly worked through their parts, letting Finn familiarise himself with the beat and rhythm, and when all their instruments came together – 

It was fast, it was loud, but there was order to the madness. It was glorious, it was heart racing, and the words seemed natural as he sang them.

Finn was glad to find out he wasn’t expected to scream down the mic – instead it walked a fine line between talking and singing, and he was grateful for the years of training that made his voice powerful enough to sing the long, rambling lyrics without fading out or running out of breath. The others seemed pleased with his performance, too, and after he was called back to another rehearsal.

So Finn went, he sang, they tweaked lyrics and riffs, Finn watched the four of them joke and muck around, and slowly he began to join in, too. 

They took Finn out to the local shops, sifting through clothes until they found ones he liked – they tore and stitched at them, remaking them into his own “look”, as they called it. He declined a DIY facial piercing, instead loading his fingers with the rings they found in second hand shops and borrowing Karé’s eyeliner. She sat him down, carefully drawing different patterns onto his face until they were both satisfied. 

He was surprised by how normal he found his reflection. Yes, the bold eyeliner and mismatched clothes were different, but he made sure it was still _Finn_ – he kept the patterned shirts he’d brought from home unaltered, wearing them under the heavy leather jacket they’d found, and he’d left his hair basically untouched, unlike Karé’s dyed braids or Iolo’s gelled spikes. 

He briefly imagined Snoke seeing him like this, and he grinned to himself in the mirror.

 

The performance date began to draw nearer, and the weight of Finn’s secret was beginning to bear down on him.

It became too much when they were sprawled together in Karé’s flat – the one she shared with Iolo and a woman called Jess, who Finn quickly discovered was her girlfriend. Finn was on his back, on a mattress that really couldn’t fit five people, and was staring at the photos taped to the wall.

“I came to London to try and get a record deal with First Order Records.”

Finn saw everyone shift to look at him out of the corner of his eye, and his gaze remained glued on its spot on the wall as he continued.

“I blew it – I told them I didn’t want to sing the material they gave me, and I walked out.”

“Good on you,” Poe grinned. “Tell ‘em where to stick it.”

“No, that’s – that’s not the point,” Finn wanted them to get it without making him say it, but none of them piped up, and so after a moment of silence, Finn continued. “They said they’d ruin my career, blacklist me so no one will hire me. I came to your audition because I was scared of my failure, because I wanted to stay in London just a little longer to see if things changed, if I still had a chance.”

Finn felt Poe’s hand touch his arm, and Karé’s head came to rest on his chest. Finn had only known them a couple weeks, this should be weird, but their presence was grounding, helped him put the flurry of thoughts into words.

“The band has no chance when I’m in it. No one will hire us because of me.”

It wasn’t fair to the others, who loved their band and their music with such a passion, to be held back by his actions, but, but –

Lying there, surrounded by the others, he felt _right_ – he liked their songs, he liked with what they sang about, the causes they stood for, and he liked his new friends most of all.

“For the record, First Order Records wouldn’t know a good punk band if it smacked them in the face,” Muran said.

“Yeah, we don’t need those guys,” Poe agreed. “We’ll sign on with an independent label, someone who cares about good music, not money.”

Poe tapped Finn’s arm, getting his attention. “And you, you are not a burden to us. We wouldn’t even be performing if it weren’t for you. Sod record labels, sod the First Order, we want you with us, no matter what.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really,” Poe said, and the others nodded. Finn grinned, and then yelped when Iolo pressed his cold, bare feet against his calves.

 

“Hey, Rey.”

“Hello stranger,” Rey teased down the phone, and Finn could picture the grin on her face. “You’re not dead, then?”

“Nope.”

“How’s the band?”

Finn sighed. “We’re performing for the first time tomorrow.”

“That’s great, Finn!”

“Rey, what if I fuck up?”

“Finn,” Rey deadpanned. “You won’t fuck up.”

“But – “ 

“You’ve been practicing for weeks, Finn, you probably know those lyrics like the back of your hand, and you’ve actually performed before – many of the singers at that club can’t even boast that.”

“Rey?”

“Yeah?”

“If I showed up at your door tomorrow morning, just… packed up and ditched all this, would you hate me?”

“Never, Finn.”

Finn’s breath shuddered as he exhaled, and it took him a moment to respond.

“Thanks.”

“I think you should do it, though – perform.”

“I need to sleep on it.”

“I’m sure you’ll make the right decision,” Rey said. “And tell your friends I said hi.”

“I will,” Finn smiled, “love you, Rey.”

“Love you, too.”

They said their goodbyes, and Finn placed the phone down, biting his nails in thought. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard footsteps behind him.

“Can’t sleep?” Poe asked, hair fluffy and eyes drooping with sleep. Of course it was Poe – Finn was staying at his place, on the sofa, since his place at the motel had been revoked – and Finn nodded as he waited for his heart to stop racing.

“You want to know something?” Poe said.

“Sure.”

“I’m scared shitless about tomorrow.”

They both laughed, and Poe rubbed the back of his neck.

“It’s not weird to get cold feet or be scared, Finn – we’re all terrified. We’ve never performed as a band, we could just… fall apart on stage, but y’know what?”

“Don’t make me guess what you’re gonna say.”

“I won’t,” Poe smiled, “what I was about to say was: it doesn’t matter. There are a hundred clubs in our area alone, there are thousands of tiny labels who might sign us – it doesn’t matter if we blow this one. Besides, maybe we’ll never go anywhere, but we’ve just got to keep trying until your voice goes or our hands are too stiff to play, anymore. Whatever happens, we can pick up and move on.”

Poe offered Finn a reassuring smile, and Finn was able to smile back.

 

Finn stayed.

The next day, they loaded their gear into Han’s van – Finn still hadn’t gotten used to seeing _Han Solo_ just around and about – and drove to the club. Finn sat, reading over his lyrics until the words bled together and Karé gave him a friendly nudge.

“You don’t need those, Finn.”

“I’m just making sure.”

She didn’t push him further, but Finn soon put the sheets away, and he caught her smiling out of the corner of his eye.

At the club, the five of them touched up their outfits, and Poe carefully pinned a Resistance patch onto Finn’s sleeve. Finn touched it gently, brushing his fingers over it as he shifted his weight from side to side, waiting for the others to finish tuning their guitars and setting up the drum kit.

Finn looked over at them all, and thought about the future, sprawling, twisting, forking off ahead of him. The audience cheered, and Finn stepped out onto the stage – he ran towards his future.


End file.
